


A Disaster Waiting To Happen

by josephina_x



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (minor annoyances and such), (mostly), (oh well!), (this is a mess), (wow how is that one not a tag yet?), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Brotherly Ribbing, Fluff, Gen, Mystery Trio, Post-Series, Post-Weirdmageddon, Teasing, The Original Mystery Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephina_x/pseuds/josephina_x
Summary: Ford and Stan are on the high-seas adventure of a lifetime, and have had a grand old time of it thus far!...Unfortunately, Ford didn’t quite have all the equipment he needed with him to take all of the weirdness measurements that he wanted to, of the worst of the areas in the Arctic that seemed to have sprung up in the aftermath of that summer’s Weirdmageddon. In fact, as it turned out, Ford didn’t even have the supplies with him that he could use tomakethe equipment he’d need for this. And these aren’t the sort of supplies that he can just pick up at the local hardware store, either, let alone whip together using the limited tools he has with him on board the Stan O’ War II just then. It’s a bit of a quandry and a problem.Ford, of course, is not to be dissuaded from his quest for scientific knowledge by anything or anyone! So he and his twin head back to port in Oregon to drop anchor, restock and regroup, and along the way Ford decides to enlist some help from an old friend to help speed things along...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic: A Disaster Waiting To Happen  
> Fandom: Gravity Falls  
> Pairing: n/a  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Spoilers: through the end of the series, and some of the books (Journal #3)  
> Summary: Ford and Stan are on the high-seas adventure of a lifetime, and have had a grand old time of it thus far! 
> 
> ...Unfortunately, Ford didn’t quite have all the equipment he needed with him to take all of the weirdness measurements that he wanted to, of the worst of the areas in the Arctic that seemed to have sprung up in the aftermath of that summer’s Weirdmageddon. In fact, as it turned out, Ford didn’t even have the supplies with him that he could use to _make_ the equipment he’d need for this. And these aren’t the sort of supplies that he can just pick up at the local hardware store, either, let alone whip together using the limited tools he has with him on board the Stan O’ War II just then. It’s a bit of a quandry and a problem. 
> 
> Ford, of course, is not to be dissuaded from his quest for scientific knowledge by anything or anyone! So he and his twin head back to port in Oregon to drop anchor, restock and regroup, and along the way Ford decides to enlist some help from an old friend to help speed things along...  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.  
> AN: So. There’s a GF Secret Santa thing going on with the WWTD Discord, and one of the questions in the survey-poll thing for garnering interest asks after prompts. To which I promptly drew a blank. And then didn’t. I came up with a grand total of two fluffy prompts, one of which I then did not submit to the Secret Santa thing, because I am a crazy person and wanted to try writing it myself. (Because I _really_ need to write some fluffy fic in here, to clear all these Bills out of my brain for a bit. I do so miss writing fluff and nonsense, really-truly.) So here it is!
> 
> I might add more to this intermittently, but this is meant to be more of a fluffy slice-of-life thing than a heavy-plot thing, somewhat the opposite of my usual fare in the GF fandom these days. No Bill here. (Famous last words, I know, but if I do end up going the ‘same-coin’ route with this one, I’ll turn this into a series and toss the more plot-intensive Stangst-y stuff into a second ‘optional’ fic, to keep the happy and the h/c separated from each other somewhat, just in case. Sound good? --Good! :)

\---

“This is a bad idea.”

“On the contrary, this is an excellent idea!” Ford told his brother, grinning as Tate helped Fiddleford walk several briefcases and packages and other large pieces of luggage up the plank and onto the boat.

“We don’t have enough space for all this nerdy junk,” Stan informed him, as Tate moved past him, following Fiddleford into the cabin. “We’ve barely got enough space for _your_ junk as it is!”

“Yes, we do. I checked my measurements twice,” Ford informed him. “It might be a little tight, but everything should be able to be stowed on board just fine.”

“We’ve only got two bunks in the cabin,” Stan grumbled out next. “Where’s he supposed to sleep?”

“Fiddleford and I can share a bunk,” Ford said practically. “We’ve done that in the bunker before comfortably, and that cot was smaller than these beds.” It hadn’t been a problem before, and Ford doubted it would become a problem now.

“If you don’t want me here, you can just say so,” Stan said, looking away from him. “You and him can go do your nerdy science stuff without me, each have a bunk, do whatever you need to do without me gettin’ in your way.”

Ford pulled in a slow breath. Admittedly, there had been occasions where Stan’s penchant for getting them into trouble had, well, _gotten them into trouble_ , but...

“Stan, I said I wanted you to come with me, and I meant it. Having Fiddleford along does not negate the usefulness of having you along, as well,” Ford told him.

…because if Ford was being honest with himself -- and he _was_ trying very hard to be, these days -- he himself had gotten them into trouble almost as many times as Stan had done so, on this trip.

And whenever Ford had gotten himself into trouble, Stan had always helped him get himself out of it, sometimes at the risk of great bodily harm to himself.

Stan was also much better at talking to the locals, bartering for the supplies and fuel that they needed for their boat.

It left Ford a little flabbergasted that Stan truly seemed to think of himself in this way: as ‘useless’, or ‘in the way’. It had come up more than once on their journey already, and each time it left him more and more baffled.

“You are, and have been, quite useful on this boat trip,” Ford reiterated to his brother, yet again. “Having Fiddleford along does not change that. I don’t see that changing in the future, with him joining us on our journey back to those arctic regions, to help me with getting better readings there.”

“Pretty sure it does when he’s going to be helping you with all that nerd stuff, and you’re doin’ a straight-sail there with no stops,” Stan complained, crossing his arms.

Ford was starting to regret planning this out and pushing the decision forward without any significant input from his brother -- making such a last-minute addition to their duo, as it were.

Frankly, he’d expected more reticence on Fiddleford’s part -- that it would take a significant amount of convincing to have him join them, if he could manage to convince him at all. It was why he hadn’t brought it up with Stan before -- he hadn’t wanted to bring up the possibility if it wasn’t actually a possibility.

Instead, Fiddleford had agreed easily, and it was Stan who seemed to be having a problem with the arrangement. Yet if he had brought it up earlier… would Stan have just spent that much more time being negative about the whole situation and trying to talk him out of it?

“You don’t need me here if you’ve got him,” was Stan’s final and most-direct objection, and at this point, Ford had almost been expecting it. It was generally the same thing that came up over and over again, every time the usefulness of Stan’s contributions to their travels was broached by Stan himself. (Ford certainly never did; it was a non-issue for him, if not pure and utter nonsense.)

But, now that it was out in the open at last ( _again_ ), Ford could finally directly address it ( _again_ ).

“Stan, Fiddleford’s help and presence with us will only…” Ford searched for the proper term to use. “... _enhance_ the science that we can do.”

“You mean that _you_ can do,” Stan corrected him.

Ford sighed. “Fine, yes -- that _I_ can do,” Ford agreed readily enough. “But he isn’t going to be very much help at actually steering or taking care of the Stan O’ War II. --Even _with_ the modifications he plans on making to the engine, to increase our top speed and make our trip go faster, we will likely still need to stop at various ports of entry at least twice along the way to the site of the weirdness activity, and twice on the way back,” Ford reminded him, tapping his notebook against his chest absently.

“You could still do it,” Stan told him. “You’re just making excuses, for no good reason. --It’ll cost less, getting stuff for two people instead of three,” Stan added next, because apparently he wasn’t done with his objections yet.

“Stan, the last time I tried to barter for supplies, you practically ran me off the island and back to the boat,” Ford pointed out. “And, if I remember correctly, you came back thirty minutes later having obtained what we needed for half the price that they had offered it for to me.”

“And now you know how much you _should_ be paying for all that stuff there,” said Stan, ticking his chin towards his notebook. “‘Cause you wrote it all down.”

“Yes, I did. However…” Stan’s own ledgers of their funds and expenditures were far more intelligible than his own, and despite Ford’s experience with multiple languages and systems of measure, Ford still had not quite gotten the hang of how to most efficiently catalog everything into those ledgers in the same way that Stan did. “You know that I don’t handle keeping track of those numbers, or cataloging things correctly into those itemized groupings of yours, very well.” As good as he was with math, bookkeeping had never exactly been his strong suit. Ford could not count how many times he’d lost track of the supplies he’d had in the lab or in the bunker. Fiddleford had had a few choices words with him about it from time to time, himself.

“You’ll manage.”

Ford sighed in frustration. He simply could not understand his brother’s full-blown intransigence on the subject. He’d expected perhaps **some** reluctance on Stan’s part, but _this?!_

And then it occurred to him.

“...Stanley, do you not _want_ to come with me on this next trip?” Ford asked of him, both astonished and worried.

And at that, Stan refused to give him a verbal response. Instead, Stan gave him a long, grumpy look, then turned away from the railing and stomped off, away from him and around the side of the cabin. He did so, despite the fact that it was a _very_... _compact_ boat.

Ford wished he could completely ignore his brother’s lack of optimism -- or, even better, replace it with enthusiasm, instead -- but that clearly wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon.

And now, he was worried that it might not happen at all.

He was quickly distracted by his worrying at the sound of a large wooden crate being thumped down onto the deck of the ship _right_ next to his right boot.

“Woo.” Fiddleford heaved out a breath of relief, then looked up at Ford with a smile in his eyes. “ _Well_ now, let’s get this lovely little thing installed and get this boat on the sea-road!” McGucket said as he slapped the side of the crate and grinned up at him.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ford agreed readily enough. The sooner they could get the updated engine technology installed that would suppliment their sails and rigging, the less time Stan might have to change his mind, pack his things, and disappear off of their boat.

Not that Ford thought that was a worry. Stan wouldn’t do that to him… right?

He glanced back over at where Stan had disappeared around the side of the cabin again, as Fiddleford began patting down his coveralls. “Now where’s that crowb-- _ah, my toolbelt!_ ” Fiddleford let out a worried yelp and scurried off -- likely after his toolbelt and said crowbar -- back into the cabin. “ _Tate!_ ”

Ford let out a sigh and followed after his friend at a more sedate walking pace.

\---

“This was a bad idea.”

Stan turned his head to look over at him from where he was leaning easy, his elbows propped up and his back against the railing of the boat.

Ford, conversely, was leaning forward over the railing on his forearms, feeling almost ill.

“What, you don’t like hamboning?” Stan asked of his brother.

Ford was unamused.

It didn’t exactly help that his brother was grinning at him like the dour look on his face was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

“Fiddleford’s not ‘hamboning’, Stanley, he’s ‘banjoing’!” Ford corrected his twin.

“What, you don’t like his banjoing?”

“NO!!!” Ford protested with every fiber of his being.

“You sure? It’s kind of catchy.” Stan tilted his head back a bit, clearly enjoying said ‘music’.

They could both hear it clearly from where they were out on the deck. And Fiddleford was inside the cabin!

\-- _with all the doors and windows closed!!_

Ford clenched his jaw. He could feel the tension headache already that he was getting at all the racket.

“So, you really don’t like his banjoing.”

“ _No,_ ” Ford repeated tersely.

“And McGucket started banjoing only after you knew him?”

“No, he used to do this when we were roommates at Backupsmore, as well,” Ford said, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose _hard_ , when all he _really_ wanted to do was stomp over to the cabin, slam open the door, grab his friend’s banjo away from him, yank open the nearest porthole window, and toss that blasted ‘musical instrument’ of his _out_ of said window and into the drink.

“And this wasn’t a problem before?” Stan asked him, sounding curious now.

“It _was_ ,” Ford admitted, wincing as the ‘music’ emanating escaping from the confines of the cabin’s walls suddenly swelled in volume, getting that much louder. “But we worked out a schedule for when I wouldn’t be around when he was doing it, and vice-versa,” he gritted out. They’d needed to, for each other’s peace of mind and sanity’s sake, if nothing else.

“So you knew that he liked doing this stuff when you invited him to come along on this second outbound trip.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything about this before, because…?” Stan prompted him, still looking far too amused for anyone’s good.

“--I didn’t realize he’d brought his banjo with him!” Ford informed his brother with no small testiness.

Frankly, he’d thought that Fiddleford would have opted to leave it behind, given what the sea salt and the moisture in the air would invariably do to that glue-cured varnished wooden instrument.

 _Clearly_ , he had been mistaken in the direction that Fiddleford’s sensibilities would lean in and eventually fall out, when it came to how he felt about his banjo, his love of ‘music’ winning out over his ‘love’ of the musical instrument he used to make said noise.

“Heh,” went his brother.

Ford turned a glare on him.

His brother took that in stride, then got a thinking look for a moment.

“So... it’s _Tate_ that’s doing the hamboning, then,” Stan said next, giving Ford a knowing look.

Ford held his head in his hands and _groaned_.

“And here I thought this trip was gonna be _boring_ ,” Stan chuckled out. “Kind of glad I didn’t miss _this_ ,” he heard his brother say next.

And to this, and his brother's happiness at being there with him -- _whatever_ the cause -- Ford could do nothing but lift up his head slightly and smile, weakly and ruefully, at his younger twin’s teasing of him and his own hubris.

“...It could be worse, I suppose,” Ford ventured to say with the faintest of smiles, then winced again, this time at the singing of ‘ _coun-try roooooooooads!_ ’ that joined in the rest of the ‘musical’ racket. “Not _much_ worse, I’m afraid, but…”

Stan chuckled at him again.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

\---

Ford was perfectly content to sit where he was and ‘keep watch’ on Stan’s fishing line for him, eyes closed, as Stan went up top to adjust course. He let out a happy sigh of relief as he reclined on the beach chair that Stan had set up on the main deck for him, out in the middle of a beautiful sunny day.

Because it was quiet. Perfectly, blissfully quiet.

...up until he heard the door to the cabin open, and the slapping sound of footsteps make their way across the deck, but that was fine, too.

“Feelin’ a mite bit better, Stanferd?” he heard, and Ford smiled.

“Yes, thank you,” Ford said, opening his eyes to look up and over at his friend.

“Was a bit of a stroke of genius from that brother-of-yours, I have to say,” Fiddleford allowed, as he sat down flat on the deck next to him, cross-legged.

“It did solve all of our problems rather nicely, didn’t it?” Ford allowed, not quite sheepishly, because it had been a rather simple solution that Stanley had offered, Tate had refined, and Fiddleford had jumped to help Ford implement.

Fiddleford honestly hadn’t realized that his music-making had been quite so hearable. He’d been downright mortified when he’d remembered Ford’s usual habitual reaction to it, and more than a little bit sorry. It was their boat, and he was a guest on it, but in this case Southern manners seemed to take something of a ‘just overstayed my welcome without meaning to’ bent.

Stan, ever the practical one, had noted gruffly that the problem wasn’t Fiddleford’s _playing_ so much as being able to hear it from every corner of the boat. And while Ford couldn’t simply wear a set of earplugs to block it out -- not with the need to hear the noises of the boat, their surroundings, and other members of their motley crew being essential to the safe operation of said boat...

...Stan _had_ offered up an alternative that had made a great deal of sense: soundproofing the cabin itself.

It was the perfect solution. If Fiddleford wanted to play inside the cabin, Ford could retreat to outside the cabin. If Ford wanted or needed to work or sleep within the cabin, Fiddleford could play outside the cabin without issue.

The only sticking point to _perfectly_ soundproofing the cabin was that they still needed to hear the rest of the normal sounds a boat might make during their voyage from inside the cabin, in case an emergency situation might occur -- like a sudden storm coming upon them, or the mast cracking and falling to the deck.

Tate had offered up a solution to that: a speaker and intercom system that could pipe the sounds out on deck to inside the cabin when turned on. 

With that ‘caveat’ in place, they still needed to communicate when each music session was to take place to each other (or could not due to the normal necessities of the proper safe operation of the boat), but the combination of the soundproofing and the intercom system solved the general problem nicely.

Really, it let both of them do what they wanted, whenever they wanted, so long as the weather held out well enough and they didn’t mind working out _where_ they each worked (or played) at any given moment of the day with each other.

...so long as at least one of them was out on deck when the music was happening, Stan when it happened outside, and Ford when it was inside. Tate wasn’t quite up to speed on the operation of the boat yet, and Fiddleford tended to get too ‘into’ his music for it to be entirely safe to leave him to his own devices out on deck.

None of them should be out on deck alone anyway, for safety’s sake. They might have a railing, but they were sailing into somewhat dangerous waters, and it was still far too easy to end up overboard if the sea began roiling too much in the precursory beginnings of a stormy squall.

For a full two days, getting everything built, upgraded, and installed had been the priority, of the utmost importance. They’d only finished it all that afternoon, in fact. But when it was done...

It had been worth it.

“Thank you for being amenable to this,” Ford told his friend.

“Well,” Fiddleford smiled. “I figgered that the two options we had otherways were you attemptin’ to go off’n try drowning yerself in the water,” and Ford couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at that -- he’d nearly jumped out the window of their dorm room at college once, very early on, due to this very self-same ‘musical’ problem -- “or me gettin’ my banjo chucked off the side of this here boat of yours, an’ neither of those two sounded mighty tempting to _me_ , so…” Fiddleford said honestly, with a self-deprecating shrug.

“Apologies,” Ford said ruefully.

“Ah, it’s all bits and gravy,” Fiddleford told him. “I’m sittin’ here sorry that I didn’t think to check iff'n you could hear my banjo playin’ from out where you were,” his friend apologized in return, before patting him good-naturedly on the arm. “We werked it all out.”

Ford smiled.

“Y’know,” said Fiddleford. “I was thinkin’ of strumming out a fine rendition of ‘Thank God I’m A Country Boy’.” He tilted his head at him. “Want to join me?”

“ _Not even a little_ ,” Ford told him with pleased finality, which prompted a laugh from Fiddleford.

“Well, don’t you go sayin’ I never try‘n improve your taste in music!” Fiddleford said, a teasing twinkle in his eye and a grin on his own face, as he pushed himself to his feet.

He hummed a few bars to himself as he sauntered off towards the cabin door, picking up his banjo from beside the door as he made his way inside.

Ford lay back in the deck chair he was in again as the cabin door closed behind Fiddleford. He closed his eyes and listened to the sweet, sweet sounds of the boat creaking under him, the lines of the mast and cloth of the sails creaking and swinging above him, the soft electric hum of the advanced engine below them, the waves of the ocean slapping up against the sides of the boat…

...and a blissful _nothing else_.

\---


End file.
